Blackout
by prittyspeshul
Summary: Long day at the office. Fluffy one-shot, post 4.04, pre 4.05.


A/N: Post 4.04, pre 4.05 

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><p>The station went dark for a second, then lit up again. Emma glanced up from the book (filespiles/mountains) of records on her desk to spare a look at the window. She hadn't realized it was raining, or that the sun had set, or that her father had left. Vaguely, she wondered when that had happened as she refocused herself on the list in her lap (were the names swimming, or had she just been looking at the page too long?). Something about these records wasn't adding up. Why wasn't The Snow Queen listed? For heaven's sakes, she owned and operated a shop in the middle of the town, why didn't anyone recognize her?

Emma tossed the book onto her desk and groaned, leaning back to let her head hang and scrubbing at her eyes. Something didn't add up, and Something Else was niggling at the back of her mind, whispering in a very annoying little voice, "You're missing something. You're miiiiiiiiissing something!"

An altogether different voice nearly sent her crashing backwards to the floor. "Swan? You there?"

She opened her eyes to greet more blackness. Great. The power had officially gone out.

"Yes, Killian, at my desk." She snapped her fingers once, hoping the lights would come back on, but even that feeble attempt at magic eluded her. Maybe if she knew a little more about it—false hopes, Emma, she warned herself. Inadvertently bringing back the formerly dead wife of your teacher's lover was not exactly the way to inspire willingness to impart knowledge. Also Regina could probably kill her and make it look like an accident.

She could hear his boots shuffling a little as he approached, slowly, feeling his way, which meant she also heard as he not-so-gracefully introduced his shoulder to the filing cabinet.

"Bloody hell," he swore/mumbled. Fabric swished, and she could imagine him massaging his arm and chest. A warmth crept to her cheeks, and for just a moment she was glad it was dark. Then a warm, scratchy cheek brushed hers and a pair of lips planted the quickest kiss on her cheek, and the moment extended. "What are you still doing here? It's nigh midnight, love, and the weather's foul."

"Records," she sighed, sweeping her arm out to indicate the mess on her desk and remembering too late where that pile of papers was—now on the floor. Killian chuckled, and though her eyes had now adjusted, she heard more than saw the creak of leather as he bent to gather them. His boots or his pants, she wondered, and her thoughts danced back to his outfit on their date and the way his butt looked in the jeans and _okay, Emma, calm down_.

"Leave it, they'll be all out of order anyway and if I have to look at them for another second right now I might throw up."

The shuffling of papers stopped, and he looked up at her. Even in the dark she could feel his eyes, soft and warm and so very full, so naturally the ever-suave-and-emotionally-mature Emma stood up and started groping around on her desk for her keys, where she'd left them after she'd come back from Granny's for dinner (had it been dinner? Maybe it was lunch. She was starving, so it probably had been lunch). "I should probably head home, Mary Margar—Mom starts to worry."

"Would you like an escort?" He straightened as she turned, and he was much closer than she had realized when she was seated. Her forehead was practically even with his jaw, and she could smell him (_whiskey and rainwater and aged wood and the faintest tang of salt that made her want to run her tongue along his collarbone_) and feel the heat that exuded from him even though he was a little damp. There was a little puff of air, and she saw muscles in his neck working, and she realized he hadn't realized how close they were either, and she thought about in front of the apartment the night before when his hands were on her shoulders and how close they were pressed and how much she wished she could have brought him inside and she didn't realize she had fisted his jacket in her hands until water was sliding down her arms. Her breathing was hitched, and his was too, and she pulled, bringing his mouth to hers and kissing it hard and full and long.

She felt his knees go a little and she liked it, more than she should have, so she kissed harder, hungrier, backing him into the filing cabinet he had bumped into earlier and pinning him. His arms wrapped around her and she felt one hand work its way up her back to her hair and her knees almost went, but no, this was hers, and she pushed him harder into the cabinet and pressed herself against him, wet clothes be damned.

He was panting against her mouth, and she pulled back just enough to let him swallow some air before devouring his lips again, one hand sliding up to stroke his wet hair. She smiled, tugging his head back to allow some access to his neck, which was drier than she'd expected, a little to her disappointment. But he still smelled wonderful, and she buried her face in his collarbone, inhaling deeply and relaxing a little against him. She had become conscious of how much she was crushing him backwards, and those handles couldn't feel good on his spine.

After a moment or two, when their breathing had quieted to normal levels, she pulled back and kissed him again, this time softly, and said, "I'd appreciate that escort."

As she walked away to get her coat, she could have sworn she heard him say, "If that's what you're like after working all day, you're not allowed to take days off."


End file.
